


I'd Add Sugar, but You're Too Sweet

by raiining



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: M/M, coffee shop AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-11
Updated: 2014-03-11
Packaged: 2018-01-15 09:22:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1299850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiining/pseuds/raiining
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint's been coming to Phil's coffee shop for years.  He sits in the corner (his corner) and orders his usual (Phil's had it memorized since the first day), but Phil doesn't kid himself – they aren't friends.</p>
<p>Even if he wishes they could be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'd Add Sugar, but You're Too Sweet

**Author's Note:**

> I finally did it! A coffee shop AU! I won't promise more, but there is a "chapter two" started on my computer. We'll see if it ever gets finished ;)
> 
> Edit: aahhh!! I forgot to thank Ralkana for beta'ing this for me!! And for helping to choose a title, and, oh so many things. This is why I shouldn't post in a hurry while my kids are sleeping.
> 
> SORRY BB! ALL THE THANKS TO RALKANA FOR SHE IS A WONDERFUL HUMAN BEING!!

"Darcy, we're out of biscotti again. Can you fill the bowl?"

The buxom brunette rolls her eyes, but turns towards the back room. “Sure thing, boss, though we wouldn't have to resupply so often if _someone_ didn't keep eating them all.” She tosses a look over her shoulder at Thor.

The huge blonde ducks his head. “They are most delicious, my friend. I only intended to have one, but found that once it was eaten I desired another.” 

Across the store, Clint laughs. “That's the problem with Coulson's cookies,” he says with a smile. “He claims he rolls them in sugar, but I'm pretty sure it's cocaine.”

Phil does his best not to blush. “Don't let Darcy intimidate you, Thor. Jane got you that gift card to spend on whatever you want.”

Thor smiles. “Perhaps as a thank you, I should take a tall extra-dark coffee to go. I will bring it to my fair lady on her lunch break.”

“That's a lovely idea,” Phil agrees, hiding a grin. No one needs to know that he's a closet romantic. “Jane likes extra foam, I believe.”

“She does indeed, Son of Coul. It is good of you to remember.”

“I'd say he memorizes all of his regulars,” Darcy pops in, returning from the backroom with a bowl full of biscotti cookies, “but that'd be a lie. Phil remembers _everything_. I'd think he has an eidetic memory, if he didn't forget his dry cleaning twice a week.”

“What do you have that needs to be dry cleaned that often, Coulson?” Clint asks with a teasing grin. “Are you a secret superhero of some kind?”

“Yes, I regularly rescue strangers with flour on my nose.” Phil rolls his eyes. “I met with my investment banker last week and I have a dinner party to go to tomorrow night. It's not actually that often that I get to wear a suit.”

“Ah, a dinner party, likely filled with beautiful people. You'll arrive with a gorgeous woman dressed in gold, and circulate like the shark you secretly are.”

“Of course,” Phil agrees, deadpan. “That's it exactly.”

Clint hums and attacks his laptop.

“Oh, no you don't.” 

“What?” Clint asks. 

“You are not going to write that scene into one of your novels. I won't be responsible for such drivel.”

“You wound me,” Clint says, putting a hand to his chest. “As if anything I write would be _drivel_.”

Phil doesn't want to admit it, but he agrees. Clint Barton is one of the best fiction novelists in the world. He's been coming to Phil's coffee shop since before his first hit and, for some reason, hasn't stopped. 

“Whatever,” Phil dismisses, shaking his head, “just promise me no women in gold.”

Clint grins. “Why, do your tastes run in a different direction?”

Phil can't tell if Clint's really flirting, or if it's just second nature to slip a suggestive edge into his voice. “Gold's too flashy,” Phil answers, torn, as always, between turning away and flirting back. “I prefer silver. Much more sedate.”

Clint's gaze flicks up and down Phil's chest. “I don't look at you and think _sedate_ , Coulson.”

Luckily, the door opens before Phil has to think of a reply. The couple walking in aren't regulars, so Phil grabs a to go cup and flashes his best smile. “Welcome to Coulson's Confessions. What can I get for you?”

 

*

 

The day passes like hundreds of others have before it, filled with fresh coffee, oven timers, and occasional conversation. Darcy leaves immediately after her eight hour shift instead of hanging around to do her homework, like she usually does. 

“Jane signed me up for this speed dating thing,” she explains with a roll of her eyes. “I have to be there at seven or I'll be defending myself against a snarky astrophysicist all night.”

Darcy and Jane are roommates, Darcy having been the one to introduce her third-year political science professor to her best friend. “It's not that I'm begrudging them their happiness, or anything, but Jane has now decided I need a girlfriend so we can double-date, and...”

Phil remembers that particular torture. “Ouch.”

“Yeah. So now I'm going to go home and change my shirt and put on make-up and try and convince myself that I don't have to die alone.”

Phil glances around the near-empty shop and salutes her with a coffee cup. “You do that.”

“Thanks, boss.” Darcy grabs her purse and turns towards the door before glancing at the easternmost corner of the room. “You know,” she adds suggestively, “ _you_ wouldn't be at risk of being eaten by cats if – ”

“Good _bye_ , Darcy,” Phil warns. He likes his youngest sister's daughter, but good help isn't _that_ hard to find. 

Darcy rolls her eyes. “Bye, boss.”

Phil ignores the easternmost corner as he begins wiping down tables. It's three thirty, which means he's got twenty minutes until the after-work rush begins. Peter will show up at five, and Phil usually leaves by six. Tonight he has to be gone by quarter-to, because he really _does_ have to pick up his dry-cleaning before the party tomorrow. Phil finishes straightening up the shop and sticks his well-used “please ring for service” sign on the front counter.

He glances over at the corner. Clint is still there, huddled behind his laptop, typing away. Phil ignores the twist in his gut he always gets when it's just him and Clint in the cafe. “I'm going to put some dough in the oven. Can you give me a shout if anyone comes in?”

Clint peeks around the screen of his computer and blinks at Phil, looking adorably mussed. He has a terrible habit of running his hands through his hair when he's thinking, not that Phil sits and stares at him, or anything. “Yeah, sure. What time is it?” 

“Three forty-five.” Phil hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “I'll be in the kitchen.”

Clint nods and leans back in his chair, lifting his arms above his head and stretching. His t-shirt rides up, exposing a pale sliver of skin, and Phil turns away in tactical retreat. He takes the sugar cookie dough from the freezer, covers his work table in cling-wrap, and gets to work. 

It takes just under ten minutes to roll out the dough, stamp it into a variety of shapes, and pop the first batch into the oven. He'll add sugar and sprinkles later, probably the new Irish green ones he bought yesterday, since it's March now and he should get into the spirit of St. Patrick's day. The thought reminds him of his dinner party, and Phil sighs.

It's not that he doesn't want to see Jasper again, because he does, it's just that the annual March celebrations for the retired members of the 69th Infantry Regiment tends to include a lot of reminiscing, drinking, and catching up, and Phil has zero interest in any of those right now. He left the army almost ten years ago and does a fair job of forgetting he was ever in combat for the majority of the year. He usually spends Veterans Day alone in his apartment which is, to be fair, how he spends the majority of his nights, only on November 11th he does it with a lot more alcohol and good helped lined up for the entirety of the 12th. 

For some reason, that makes him think of Clint. Phil peeks around the corner to check in, and sure enough, Clint is still sitting in what he affectionately calls 'his' chair, a corner Phil has to admit feels empty when the author isn't there. Clint's well aware of Phil's self-imposed exile on November the 11th. He doesn't miss much, and he often arrives on the 12th with a bottle of Advil he leaves at the register 'just in case'.

Darcy says he stays in the shop all day on the 12th, too, hushing customers if they laugh too loud and glancing up towards the ceiling, because he knows Phil sleeps above the shop. Phil doesn't really believe her, but every year she swears again that it's true.

He's never mustered his courage to check and make sure. 

Phil sighs and goes back to the kitchen, retreating to his dough and the army of sprinkles he has arranged on the counter. Cowardice is his number one confession when it comes to Clint Barton. They've known each other for almost five years now and Phil still knows next to nothing about the man. The majority of what he does is gleaned from Clint's 'About the Author' page on the website his publisher Natasha runs for him. Clint Barton, apparently, enjoys mixed martial arts and archery (Phil believes it, Jesus Christ, those _arms_ ) when he's not writing novels or inhaling coffee as if it will single-handedly keep him alive. 

Phil's met Natasha a couple of times. She's nice, gorgeous in a singular kind of way, and smiles at Clint when he talks with his hands. They're beautiful together, but Phil doesn't think they're actually dating. Clint grins at her and flirts occasionally, nudging her shoulder when she can't decide on a latte flavour or kicking her ankle when she starts to get impatient and tap her foot. It's casual and more sibling-ish than anything, which Darcy had pointed out to him for about a year after Phil had first seen them together.

Phil blushes and switches out the cookies for another batch. He's worked hard to conceal his crush, but Darcy is family and knows him too well. Peter, thankfully, is oblivious. 

He gets the second batch into the oven just as the door to the shop opens. Phil's turning even as Clint calls out, “Coulson! Customers!”

“Sorry about that,” Phil says as he comes around to the front of the store. “What can I get for – hey, Jasper!” 

“Phil! I was in the area and thought I'd stop by, you've mentioned this place to me enough times. How're things going?”

Jasper looks the same as he always does, latino skin honey-dark, sharp eyes tucked behind a pair of wire-rim glasses. His laugh lines are a little deeper, his hair is completely gone, but his smile is as bright as ever, and his grip, when Phil comes around the counter to shake his hand, is strong. 

“Good, good, same as always. Are you in town for the thing tomorrow?”

“Yup, Maria and I got in yesterday. She wanted to come and say hi, but Marsha – you remember Marsha? Collins' wife – arranged something for the girls and the kids to do together this afternoon. She said she'd see you tomorrow.”

“Right.”

Jasper's eyes narrow. “You _are_ coming, aren't you?”

“Yes, Jasper,” Phil sighs, “I'm coming.” He nods at the coffee selection. “What can I get for you? On the house, of course.”

Jasper grins. “Well, you know me and my caffeine addiction, Coulson. Whatever you think I'd like.”

Phil glances over his selection and then chooses a Moroccan blend with extra spice. He brews it and nods Jasper to a table, but the after-work rush begins before Phil can join him. Jasper waits through six businessmen in suits, three frazzled twenty-somethings, Janet who runs the daycare across the street, and a mixed bag group of seven, who strike up a conversation while waiting in line and take forever to order. Finally, he comes back to the counter to return his cup, and Phil throws him an apologetic smile. “My help doesn't show up till five, and it's going to be like this until then. Why don't you go and find your wife, Jasper. I'll see you tomorrow.”

“All right,” Jasper agrees, thankfully not looking too disappointed. He leans over the counter and wraps Phil in a one-armed hug. “I'm looking forward to it. Oh, Maria wanted me to remind you that you're always welcome to bring a plus-one, if you like. No pressure.”

Phil's smile tightens. “Of course. Thank you, Jasper.”

The woman waiting at the counter clears her throat, and Jasper rolls his eyes before he leaves. Phil turns back to his customers and works on filling cups. He sells out of the biscotti again and debates running to the back to grab another bowl just as another group of three wanders in. 

Phil hides his sigh and plasters on a smile, but Clint is suddenly there, behind the counter, with his hand on Phil's arm.

“Go ahead,” Clint tells him quietly, his fingers warm where they wrap around Phil's elbow. “I can handle this for the thirty-five seconds it'll take you to restock.”

Phil glances at the customers, biting his lower lip. “Are you sure?” 

Clint grins. “I am. I've drunk enough coffee here to know what's good, and I can snap lids on cups nearly as well as Darcy can. Just make sure you're back before I have to ring anything up, because your cash register gives me the willies.”

Phil hesitates another half-second before he nods. “Will do. Thank you, Clint.” 

“No problem,” Clint says, smiling like it's actually true, and turns to face the customers. “Hello! Welcome to Coulson's Confessions. What can I get for you?”

Phil makes a dash for the back room and fills the bowl of biscotti from his pre-made stash. He also snatches the first batch of sugar cookies on his way out and throws them into a container. They aren't decorated yet, but some people prefer them plain. 

Clint's just filling the third cup of coffee and recommending a dessert choice when Phil makes it back. “Thanks again.” 

“Like I said, not a problem.” Clint wipes his hands on the dishtowel by the sink. 

Phil handles the cash transaction and only has a second to watch Clint walk back to his corner before the next wave of customers descends. It's pretty steady until five, at which point Peter blows in the door like a lost and harried-looking leaf. He dumps his homework behind the counter and slips an apron on, filling coffee cups without a word, and Phil is so thankful, he gives the kid first cookie selection once the rush dies down at five fifteen. 

“Ooh, fresh from the oven,” Peter says, wiggling his fingers in excitement. “Nom nom.”

Phil shakes his head, but steps out from behind the counter and walks to Clint's corner of the room. “Here, a small thank you for a very timely intervention.”

Clint leans away from his computer and flashes Phil a smile. “Awesome, free cookies. Thank you, Coulson.”

For some reason, the use of his last name feels strange. Maybe it's because Jasper was here before, calling him Phil and giving him one-armed hugs over the counter. He touches Clint on the wrist when he reaches for a cookie. “You can call me Phil, if you like.”

Clint freezes. “Um, are you sure?”

Phil shrugs, feeling self-conscious. “Yes. I mean, if you like. We're... well, maybe not friends, but...”

“Right,” Clint says, hurriedly, looking back to the cookie tray. “Of course not.”

Phil feels a horrible twisting in his gut. “I mean, I call you 'Clint', and I've never asked if that was okay – ”

“It's fine,” Clint says, choosing a cookie and sitting back. He darts a look up at Phil's face, then looks back down to his treat. “You're right, we hardly know each other.”

Phil nods, standing there with the tray of cookies, feeling suddenly lost. Clint goes back to his laptop and Phil swallows and backs away, retreating to the counter. Peter is there, oblivious, fiddling with his phone and flipping through his textbooks, and generally doing three to five things as once, like he usually is.

It's fine. Phil has always known his crush on Clint was impossible, anyway. He turns away from the easternmost corner and concentrates on refilling the coffee carafes. When that's done, Phil retreats to the kitchen and pulls the last batch of sugar cookies out of the oven, stacking them in a corner to cool where he can decorate them later. When that's done, he hangs his apron by the door, grabs his wallet and keys from the tiny safe, and then goes back to the front to remind Peter that he has to leave early this afternoon.

Peter nods and promises he'll lock up, though Phil will be back before the shop officially closes that night. Clint's still in his corner, writing, and he doesn't glance over as Phil leaves. Phil stuffs his hands in his pockets instead of waving, and goes.

Phil does so well managing on auto-pilot, he's halfway to the bank for his Thursday deposit before he remembers that it's Friday and he almost forgot his dry-cleaning again. He sighs and doubles back, smiling hello to the receptionist. She hands over his suit, protected from the New York air by double plastic wrap, and Phil hikes it over his shoulder as he pays. 

Memory intrudes again when he steps to the curb and realizes he can't go back to the shop just yet, because Clint will probably still be there.

Phil sighs and heads to a diner he knows, one that won't balk if he folds his suit over a second chair at his table. He orders his usual burger and fries and munches on them mechanically, working through his own embarrassing disappointment. He tells himself that he is ex-military and giving up a crush shouldn't be more difficult than raiding an enemy encampment at night, even though it somehow is. 

By the time he makes it back to the cafe, it's dark outside. Clint is gone. Peter's handing the shop and has even managed to get some homework done. Phil drops his dry cleaning off in his apartment, then heads to the kitchen to work on tomorrow's dough.

“Go ahead and head home,” he tells Peter once his last batch is ready and in the fridge. “I'm going to sit and have a cup, I can lock up tonight.”

“I don't know how you can drink coffee before bed,” Peter says, closing his books. “I'd be up till two am and have been, the few times that I've tried.”

Phil side-eyes him. “Peter, I thought we agreed that you should never have caffeine.”

Peter grins. “Just wait until next year, when I turn twenty-one. You ain't seen nothing yet.”

“Heaven preserve us,” Phil says. “Now get out of here, you're making me feel old.”

Peter flashes him a sloppy salute before ducking out of the shop. Phil shakes his head and fills a carafe, deciding that some extra-dark Peruvian would be perfect right now. He leans on the counter and watches the traffic thin as the night deepens, forcing his mind to wander in a direction other than Clint. It was nice to see Jasper today. As much as he hates reunions, he has to admit that it'll be fun to get together with Maria tomorrow. God, their kids must be, how old now? 

The front door jangles, interrupting his thoughts. Phil looks up and stares as Clint comes running in through the door, wind-tossed and pale, his remarkable eyes wide in his face.

“I like romance movies,” Clint blurts out, his gaze locked on Phil. “I hate sad commercials and I cry during Old Yeller and my brother bailed on me when I was eleven years old. Natasha and I dated once, years ago, before deciding that we made better friends. There are three numbers in my cell phone that I have memorized, and one of them is this shop. I – ” His face falls, cycling through a complicated number of expressions. “I want to think we're friends.”

Phil feels a buzzing behind his ears. His heart is beating wildly, the adrenalin from Clint's sudden entry swimming through his veins. He wets his lips. “I like rom coms,” Phil admits. Clint's eyebrows go up, and then down, and Phil feels like a dam is breaking, like he's been chipping out a hole for years now and Clint's words are the last tap of the pick. “I skip commercials and have never seen Old Yeller and I hate war movies because they always get things wrong. I have nightmares and I sleep with a gun beside my bed and I started baking when my mother died, because she couldn't cook and always wanted to. My father and I haven't spoken since I started college and he has Alzheimer's so it's too late to fix things. I've read all of your books because even though I pretend I don't buy them, Darcy gets me one for my birthday every year. I own two copies of every novel, even the short story anthologies, but as much as I like your writing, I mostly like _you_. I...” Phil falters. “I want to be friends.”

Clint stares at him. Phil doesn't know what expression is on his face, but he watches Clint watch him and feels his fingers tighten into stiff boards at his sides from the effort of remaining still. 

“I like your buddy,” Clint finally says, stepping closer but still hanging back, moving slowly but still _moving_ , not running away like Phil feared he would. “I've never seen you that relaxed before – your shoulders dropped half an inch when he came in. I want to see that, I want...” He trails off, licking his lips. Phil tracks the motion. “You're incredible, so calm and contained, but you _move_ , very fast sometimes. You notice _everything_ , even without seeming to, and no one's ever been able to sneak up behind you. The one time Peter tried, you almost broke his arm.”

“You snuck up on my today,” Phil confesses, hardly daring to breathe as Clint drifts closer. “I turned around and you were there, in my space, and I didn't even notice. You've always done that to me.”

“What?” Clint asks. He's almost near enough to touch, now, just an arm's length from the counter.

“Gotten in close, right under the skin, before I'd even realized that was a possibility. You're smart and funny and – ” Phil blushes. “I watch you, too often, when I hope you can't see.”

Clint laughs, a huff of breath, so close it tickles Phil's nose. “I like it when you blush. I like it when you smile. You're always so serious, slightly removed from everything, and you have this way of smiling with only half of your mouth...” Clint trails off. He's staring at Phil, his eyes wide and pupils dilated, and _I did that,_ Phil thinks, feeling giddy. _That was me._

“You're beautiful,” Clint goes on. He's pressed right against the counter, fingers digging into the wood. “I've always wanted to tell you that, but wasn't sure how I could.”

“I...” Phil tries. He stares at Clint. “You're... everything.”

He colours again, a deep flush, and Clint smiles. “Come on a date with me,” he says. “I want to be friends but I also want more. I want so much more, if that's okay with you.”

“Yes,” Phil breathes. He watches Clint, who doesn't run away or laugh it off or do anything but smile, so wide it bursts through the last of Phil's hesitation, his fear that this is too good to be true. “Okay.”

“Perfect,” Clint says, before casting an eye around the shop. “Only maybe not someplace with coffee, I don't think anywhere else could quite compare.”

Phil laughs.

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: All I know of the 69th Infantry Regiment I learned from the internet (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/69th_Infantry_Regiment_(New_York)) I have no idea if they actually have St. Patrick's Day celebrations, but it is an Irish regiment, so I'm going to go out on a limb here and say it's not outside of the realm of possibility.


End file.
